


England's Lion

by Dawn1000



Category: Historical RPF, The Tudors (TV)
Genre: Drama & Romance, F/M, Family, Politics, Self-Insert, The author used creative license and took historical liberties, but not really, more of an oc-insert
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:55:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25214272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dawn1000/pseuds/Dawn1000
Summary: In another world, Arthur Tudor dies at the age of fifteen, leaving the English throne to his younger brother. In another world, a tyrannical Henry VIII poisons everything he touches and kills people by the thousands. That is not this world.In this world, Arthur Tudor both lives and doesn't. His body survives, but in his place is a man from the twenty-first century who is determined to do everything he can to do right by his people and a woman who would have been treated horribly by his brother. In this world, England may prosper or it may fall, but it will be ruled by a king worth a damn, and a wife will know how it feels to be valued by her husband, just as children will never learn to fear for their lives at the hands of their father.And Catherine of Aragon will be there every step of the way.
Relationships: Catherine of Aragon/Arthur Tudor, other pairings undecided - Relationship
Comments: 9
Kudos: 79





	1. Chapter 1

Catalina is promised to Arturo before they are even old enough to understand what an engagement is. She is three and he is two verging on her own age, and although she does not understand the gravity of the situation when her parents inform her, she smiles and nods her head like the infanta she is and tells them she hopes for a marriage as wonderful as theirs. Mama smiles at that, kneels down beside her and presses a kiss to her cheek, and Papa sets a large hand atop her head. Catalina, knowing she has pleased them, lets out a little giggle and thinks no more of the little boy she is destined to marry.

* * *

Of course, it is not so easy. Mama and Papa bring on the best tutors for her, educating her in Spanish, Latin, French, and English as well as philosophy and theology. English is hard- it comes more difficult to her than anything else, and Catalina would give up if she didn’t know how much it would disappoint her parents. 

That’s how she finds herself here, hunched over, sniffling and glaring at her book. There’s a knock at the door before it swings open and her tutor looks up, his brow creased with a frown, before bowing swiftly. Catalina looks up to see Juan and Juana. Her brother has their father’s brown hair and their mother’s blue eyes, the perfect combination of Isabel de Castilla and Fernando de Aragon. Her sister looks like a miniature copy of their mother. Both gaze at her now with sympathy.

“Your Graces,” Catalina’s tutor says. Juan and Juana turn to him at the same time, their movements synchronized. 

“We were hoping to steal our sister away for a moment,” Juan says in his perfect Latin. Juana adds nothing, only rests a hand against her hip, and Catalina watches on as the man opens his mouth as if to speak up before closing it. 

“A break could be beneficial,” he admits grudgingly. Juan’s eyes brighten and Juana takes her hand. 

“Come now, _hermanita_ ,” she says, breaking their Latin for a moment, “Let’s get you out of here.”

She pulls Catalina down the halls to the courtyard and Juan follows them quickly. They sit on a bench, guards and pages at a respectful distance, and at Juana’s beconning, Catalina rests her head in her lap. Juan settles beside them. 

“I hope this Arturo is worth all your misery,” he says. “If he’s not, tell me and I’ll sail to _Inglaterra_ myself and set him right. Catalina smiles and Juana pinches their brother. He yelps and rubs his arm before glaring at her. “That goes for you too, woman! _Dios Mio!_ ”

* * *

A week after the interaction with her siblings, Mama pulls Catalina aside. She curtsies before her and rises as her mother flicks up her hand. “You’re six years old now,” Mama says. ”It’s time you begin writing to Arturo. He is to be your husband, after all.” Catalina nods and Mama sets down a quill, ink, and parchment. “Use these sometime by next week. We’ll review your letter and send it off if we deem it acceptable.”

“Yes, Mama.” 

Her mother pats her cheek and her eyes soften. When she leaves the room, Catalina collects the items and sits at her desk as she prepares to write.

* * *

The response comes quicker than expected. Papa hands it to her, the seal unbroken, and she sits by the same desk where she wrote her own letter. Catalina breathes in, out, and in again before opening it. 

It reads in perfect, refined handwriting:

_To the lovely Catalina, Infanta of Spain,_

_It gladdens me to have received your letter. It is my hope that we can become friends, and that our union will be one of mutual respect and affection. I have been learning Latin, just as you have, along with mathematics, science, theology, and philosophy. I hope that my reign over England, with you by my side, will be one of peace and prosperity, of art and learning. If you wish, perhaps you could tell me what dialect of Latin it is that you’re studying? It would be awful if when we met, we discovered we couldn’t communicate properly._

_Please write again soon,_

_Arthur Tudor, Prince of Wales_

Catalina blinks at the letter for a moment. Then she rereads it. It’s a formal message, more structured than what she wrote, but before she can think more on that, there’s a knock at the door. Before she can respond, it’s already swinging open. Juan or Juana, then, or both. They have a bad habit of barging in. Catalina draws herself up and fixes her expression into Mama’s stern, queenly one. Based on Juana’s amused half-smile, it doesn’t work.

“It isn’t polite to not knock,” Catalina says. Juana laughs and settles on her bed. 

“Did Mother tell you that, _hermanita_?” There’s something in her voice that isn’t quite right when mentioning Mama, but she seems fine, so Catalina doesn’t say anything. “I heard you got a letter today. From Arturo.” 

Catalina blushes and her sister laughs. 

“How’d you know that?”

Juana winks.

“I have my ways. Now show me.”

She waves Catalina over. After a moment’s hesitation, she goes. Juana extends her hand and she passes the parchment, her heart fluttering. Arturo is to be her husband, her king, and Juana is her favorite sister. Part of her wants her to like the letter he wrote. Catalina watches Juana’s expression carefully, notes the smile on her face slacken and her expression grow more serious. Her sister sets the letter down and rests her cheek against her palm, strawberry blonde strands of hair falling over her face.

“Well,” she says, blue eyes dead serious, “No one ever told me your Arturo is a little genius.”

* * *

Catalina’s parents have more reserved reactions to Arturo’s letter than Juana did, and they seem less surprised, but she still sees Mama’s eyebrow raise, just like Juana’s does when she’s thinking hard, and Papa’s eyes narrow. They share a _look_ , full of something Catalina can’t understand, before turning back to her.

“You’ve done well, _mija_ ,” Mama says, and her chest puffs out. Papa laughs at that, a rich rumble from deep in his chest, and she tries to fight off the fierce pride which burns through her. 

“Keep writing to Arturo,” Papa commands. Catalina nods and he grins. “That can wait for now though. Go on and play.” 

Like a good daughter, she does.

* * *

The years drag on, and Catalina dutifully writes to Arturo throughout them. He extends his condolences to her eldest sister, Isabel when her husband dies, comforts her when Juana leaves to marry the Duke of Burgundy, and consoles her when Juan joins God in Heaven, followed by Isabel, followed two years later by her son and Catalina’s little nephew, Miguel de Paz. He soothes her worry for Juana, surrounded by enemies on all sides as best he can, and his frequent letters help to distract her from the rumor that her favorite sister is going mad.

Arturo builds for her cathedrals made up solely of words, designs worlds on parchment, and Catalina had worried for a time that she was falling far behind him in terms of academics. So she’d begged her parents for more classes, for mathematics and geography and science and everything else she could get her hands on. Her husband would not be cursed with an ignorant wife, she’d declared. When Arturo had heard, the diplomats in his father’s court assured her, he’d laughed and boasted that his wife would be the most educated and learned woman in all of Christendom. 

When she’d been on the verge of turning fourteen, she’d asked for a miniature of him tentatively. She hadn’t wanted to seem wanton, nor did she want to potentially damage the friendship they’d culminated, but in his next letter, Arturo had sent a beautiful golden locket with the face of a boy sporting a head of red-brown curls, high cheekbones, and a long, straight nose. He was handsome, Catalina had thought to herself, and she’d put the locket on and worn it proudly. 

Catalina isn’t sure when something shifted in their dynamic. She isn’t sure when she began to spend hours stewing over what Arturo would think of her letters rather than her parents or his. She doesn’t know when she began to await his responses with baited breath, when her hands grew clammy as she broke their seals, when her heart pounded with every word she read. Somewhere along the line, Arturo has gone from precious friend and confidant to something more. 

“It is a lucky thing to fall in love with your husband,” her mother reassures her, but Catalina can’t help but think of Juana and wonder if that’s really the case. If Arturo has affairs, will she be able to turn a blind eye? It is her duty, of course, and it is his right as both a future king and a man, but the very thought of another woman holding his attention makes something uncomfortable twist in her chest. 

_Enough of that,_ she thinks. Arturo’s birthday has just passed, and _Inglaterra_ has sent word that they are prepared for their marriage. She is to leave for her husband’s country soon, she is to leave to become Princess of Wales and marry Arturo. At the thought, Catalina touches the locket resting at the base of her throat and smiles. 


	2. Chapter 2

Before she departs for _Inglaterra_ and leaves her parents behind in Santa Fe, Papa kisses her forehead and Mama wraps her arms tightly around her. “You must be strong, Catalina,” she says, “You must show the world what it means to be an Infanta of Spain.”

“And the Princess of Wales,” Catalina reminds her. Papa cracks a smile at that and Mama’s own lips twitch. 

“We have prepared you for this role the best we can,” her father says, “And you are ready. Whatever happens now is the will of God. Sail to your husband’s lands, make a name for yourself, and guide him well. Do this and give him children, raise them to be great kings and queens alike, and you shall prosper.”

“Yes, Papa.”

Her parents look on proudly, sadly, as she mounts her horse to meet the roaring crowds gathered to bid farewell to their last remaining infanta. Catalina waves and smiles, feels the sun’s rays on her face and the breeze through her hair, and allows herself to enjoy one last taste of her homeland before she arrives in _Inglaterra_. Before she finally meets Arturo. 

* * *

The winds are harsh and the water is choppy before they set sail. Clouds loom over the horizon, dark and heavy, and the wind whirls and screeches until the sound drowns out everything else. Catalina isn’t surprised when they have to turn around, but disappointment sticks at the back of her throat like bile and her mood is black as they wait out this cursed storm. No one can lighten the shadow which has fallen over her, not her ladies, not her maids, not even the assurances that Arturo’s father will send one of his best captains to guide them safely through the Bay of Biscay.

The only thing she can do is bundle herself in blankets and stare out of her window as rain pours from the skies and tears out the earth below. Catalina prays for a great many things as well. For her safety and that of her companions, for a quick end to the storm, for the arrival of this captain King Enqrique has sent. Arturo’s locket- her locket, in truth- rests heavy on her.

 _Please_ , she thinks, _Please, let me see him in person. Let me see his lands and his people. Let me not return home a failure, let me not return home with nothing._

* * *

Weeks later, when the skies have cleared a bit, Stephen Brett comes as a godsend. Catalina sees the outline of his ship across the water and starts. Cheers ring out across her company and her heart lightens. 

_“Gracias a Dios,”_ she crosses herself. 

Captain Brett has the traditional looks of a man from _Inglaterra_. He’s on the older scale, around forty years old, and his skin is weathered and lined, but beneath bushy brows, his eyes are light brown, and his straight, short-cropped hair is the color of straw. He’s tall and handsome in his own odd, roguish way, and Catalina sees blushes upon several of her retinue’s cheeks. She frowns at that. No one will disgrace themselves by carrying bastards in their bellies by the time this voyage is over. Not under her watch. She will not be shamed before she even steps foot in her new lands. 

“Your Highness,” Captain Brett bows. His accent is thick, the words clumsy, and she realizes this might be the only Latin he knows. 

“Captain,” she replies in English, and fights a grimace at the Spanish curl around the words. She is foreigner enough to him already. He looks surprised. 

“Forgive me, Your Highness. I was not aware you spoke my mother tongue.”

She smiles wanly. 

“I am passable, sir.”

“I’m no knight, Your Highness.”

They spend the rest of the day planning their trip to _Inglaterra_. During these discussions, Catalina no longer feels helpless or useless- she is stationary no longer. With each hour, her mood improves, and soon she forgets it was dark in the first place. 

And then, in the morning, they set sail. For the second time, Catalia bids farewell to her beloved Spain.

* * *

Catalina hates the sea with a passion. Wrath is a sin, she knows, yet her temper cannot help but flare every time she is sick. If she were not so delicate, perhaps true rage would set in, but as she is, she stays in bed and allows her maids to wipe at her face and clean the area.

With each rock of the ship, her stomach turns. Below deck, it is dark and dreary, and she finds herself longing for the sun. 

“You are too weak, Your Highness,” one of the maids protests when she attempts to rise. She presses Catalina down lightly against the mattress and her head spins. “You must rest,” the woman says, softer this time.

She groans, an ignoble, graceless sound, and curses herself for it. Before, she wanted nothing more than to set sail. Now, she wants nothing more than to touch land again. 

_Lord, give me strength._

* * *

They reach _Inglaterra- England,_ Catalina reminds herself of where she is- in early October, and she herself sets foot on English soil at 3 o’clock. They land in Plymouth to cheering crowds and the nobility of the area. 

“To the Princess of Wales,” the people whoop, though she and Arturo- _Arthur-_ have only been married by proxy, “To Good Prince Hart’s wife!” Catalina notes the use of Artu- Arthur’s nickname and files it away for later. 

_He is well liked,_ she realizes quickly, _Perhaps even loved._

The Earl of Surrey approaches upon a white stallion, dressed in a red and white doublet and dark breeches. A pin with his coat of arms rests above his heart. He dismounts swiftly, smoothly, and bows. 

“Your Highness,” Surrey says, “I cannot possibly describe how glad we are to see you safe and well in England.” At his words, another round of cheering explodes. Catalina waits for the crowd to settle down before responding. 

“My Lord, I am both elated and relieved to finally set foot in your king’s lands. My joy will be complete when I wed the Prince of Wales and join him in holy matrimony. I hope to see you there.”

Surrey smiles and bows again. He helps her onto a mare, something she laughs at internally. She grew up on her parents’ war campaigns- she knows horses better than most of the nobility. Still, she understands it is tradition, and so she takes no offence.

As she rides upon English soil and feels the kiss of the English sun, as she hears English voices crying out for her in glee and feels the locket her English husband-to-be gifted her, Catalina knows her new life has begun in full. She straightens her back, squares her shoulders, and lifts up her chin as she races to her future.

* * *

It takes Catalina over a month to travel through England and meet her future husband and father in law. Most things go smoothly, but there are some mishaps along the way- namely, King Enri- King _Henry’s_ demand to set his eyes upon her. Doña Elvira is still spitting blood, and Catalina herself is disgruntled by the entire affair, but nevertheless, their party moves on. 

Everything joins together in Dogmersfield, where King Henry and Arthur wait for her. She mounts her horse, the beautiful dappled black and brown mare the Earl of Surrey had gifted her, and rides across the cobble path to the manor, her breath catching as she sees two figures urging their own mounts towards her as well. 

The first she recognizes, for she has already laid eyes upon him before. The King of England is broad shouldered and tall with brown hair and hard, brown eyes. The boy beside him resembles the miniature her betrothed sent for her at her request. As they draw closer, she forgets to breathe. Arturo (for Catalina forgets to call him Arthur in her mind, so distracted is she) sits upon his mount almost as tall as his father. He is not just handsome, he is _beautiful_ . Not in the traditional sense, perhaps, for he almost appears too delicate and gentle for a boy nearly grown, but striking all the same. His curls, proof of his Welsh descent, are red-brown, the perfect combination of his father’s side and his mother’s. He has a long, straight nose set above full lips, like in his portrait, and high cheekbones, but his eyes are almond-shaped, and they are _gray._ Catalina has never seen gray eyes before. They are soft in the evening light, soft as he takes her in, and she ignores the hammering of her heart in favor of offering him a warm smile. 

“Welcome to England, Your Highness,” King Henry says, barely a hint of an accent in his Latin. 

“I thank you for your hospitality, Your Grace.”

“How did you fare on your journey?” Arturo’s voice is quiet and soft, but not meek, not timid. Catalina’s stomach flips as she turns back to him. 

“Well enough, my prince.”

He smiles. “Good. I’m relieved.”

King Henry shifts in his saddle. “We are here to escort you into the manor, Your Highness,” he says. “If you would join us…” 

He and Arthur (and she prides herself on remembering to call him that this time) split apart and allow her to slip between them. She rides with them to the manor and dismounts with her betrothed’s help. He is the very embodiment of courtesy and politeness- his hands do not linger at her waist, do not skid against her sides- and she is grateful for that, but then he catches sight of the locket around her neck and his eyes widen. Arthur goes tense for a moment, and Catalina worries as his face shutters, but there is no thinly-veiled offence held behind his gaze as he looks upon her again. He breathes out slowly and relaxes.

“If you would follow me, Your Highness,” he extends his arm. Catalina takes the offered limb, relishes the warmth the wiry sinew of it offers, and enters the manor of Dogmersfield. 

At the back of her mind, anxiety over his reaction to the locket still lingers.

  
  



End file.
